The Simple Death (15 page)

Twenty-three

T
hat afternoon, Troy and Conti followed up Pearson's requests for statistics. Professor Urquhart was a stout woman in her fifties, surprised and offended when she heard of Pearson's desire to see the Paediatrics' figures.

‘Just a stupid marketing scheme of Bellamy's,' she said, ‘an ombudsman. We're already the most scrutinised people in the country, and now this. We should have gone on strike.'

‘I understand a lot of doctors were very upset by the initiative,' said Troy.

‘Upset—'

‘Do you think any would have been angry enough to kill Mr Pearson?'

You have to take your pleasure where you can find it, Troy thought, as the professor turned red and rose from her seat as though she'd just been inflated. She proceeded to abuse Troy with verve and a vocabulary suggesting she'd done this before. Once or twice.

When they'd returned to the corridor, Conti looked at Troy. ‘Do you think she'll call McIver?'

‘I hope so.'

McIver had once opined that medical specialists were the second rudest people in the world. The first were their receptionists.

*

Ian Carter was a more considered type of person, but what struck Troy most was his age. He wouldn't have been more than late thirties, which seemed young to be running Oncology. He was at the nurses' station when they arrived, bending over some forms with a woman seated at the desk. The detectives waited, and Troy looked around the corridor, into the rooms that were visible from where he was standing. People walked past, one a man in his late twenties with two small children, the kids talking over each other, the man looking as though he'd just been struck on the back of the head.

‘Let's go in here.'

It was Carter, shaking hands firmly and ushering them into a small room, with carpet and chairs and a picture of Kakadu on the wall. The doctor shut the door and suddenly it was very quiet. A room, Troy realised, where bad news would be given. Carter was almost slight in build but not quite. He had a trim, dark beard on sallow skin; if you looked closely enough, you could probably make out each individual hair. He yawned and told them he'd spent the week covering for a registrar who was at a conference.

Troy explained why they were there and Carter said Mark had called him not long after he'd started at the hospital, and asked for a meeting. He'd wanted to discuss how the existing complaints process worked.

‘He spoke to lots of people,' Carter said. ‘I think I was one of the first. David Saunders might have suggested me because we're on the same floor as the ombudsman's office.'

‘You know Saunders?' Troy said, wondering why a physician would have any contact with the chief financial officer.

‘Everyone knows David,' Carter said with a brief smile. His eyes were slightly pink, perhaps from tiredness. Troy had noticed a lot of the medical staff walking around the hospital looked either sleepy or wired. ‘I ran a pilot scheme for David last year, for a new ward-management system.'

‘This is BRISTOL?'

‘Yeah. Usually the NUMs manage the wards, but this takes in a broader range of tasks and we thought it needed medico input.'

Conti said, ‘So you met Mark just the once?'

‘More than that. We're both football fans, and we bumped into each other in the lift and talked about the World Cup. Had coffee once, he even invited me to a party last week at his house. There were other people from the hospital there.'

‘Did you know he was looking into mortality stats for Oncology?'

The doctor nodded, ran fingers through his beard. ‘I'm on the hospital mortality committee. Mark was appointed too, a few months after he started. He was interested in the problem that we have lots of stats but no one pays them much attention; he thought maybe they needed to be coordinated. He didn't know much about it, wanted an example of some of the important stuff we receive here. I suggested he pull the Oncology figures. I offered to go over them with him.'

‘You've seen the stats?'

‘Not yet.' Another yawn.

‘How do you think Mark was finding the job?'

‘I'd say he was anxious. The penny had dropped, I think.'

‘Which penny would that be?' said Conti.

‘He talked about it briefly at his party. Mark was pretty naive, but he'd worked out by then what he was involved in—Bellamy's shopfront scheme had gone all wrong.'

‘How did he feel about that?'

‘I'm no expert, but from the way he was talking I wondered if he was on the point of clinical depression. I suggested he see someone.'

Troy resisted the urge to glance at Conti. ‘Had you noticed this in him before?'

‘No, but I hardly knew him.'

‘Do you think Mark might have been a pethidine addict?'

Carter laughed and shrugged. Troy saw that when he wasn't tired he would be expressive. ‘I have no idea.'

‘Do you use pethidine here?'

‘No. Morphine's the thing for cancer.' Carter yawned again. ‘We sometimes use it with other drugs; our nurses are very good at pain management. Almost as good as the hospice—our people are the only ones from St Thomas' who Charity will use for casual shifts.' He blinked. ‘Sorry, I'm rambling.'

Troy said, ‘We found pethidine ampoules in Mark's bag and in his flat. Do you have any idea how they might have got there?'

‘None at all.'

‘Did you see anyone acting suspiciously at the party on Wednesday?'

‘No. One of your colleagues rang me about that. It was a pleasant evening, they were good hosts.'

When the interview finished, Carter pushed himself out of his chair, and Troy and Conti said they'd be in touch if they needed anything more.

‘Be quick,' Carter said. ‘I'm off to the States in a few weeks.' Troy raised his eyebrows politely. ‘I won a management award for the pilot scheme for BRISTOL. One year at Johns Hopkins.'

‘That's good?'

‘It's one of the best hospitals in the world.'

‘Congratulations.'

Carter smiled and was about to say something when he was overtaken by another yawn.

Twenty-four

D
riving to Julie's house, Leila needs music. She has a good sound system in the BMW, and at the moment Richter's Beethoven sonatas and Lou Reed's 1973 concert at Howard Stein's Academy of Music are on high rotation. She settles for the Richter, figuring it'll get her there in a more settled frame of mind.

Julie lives in a semi in Summer Hill, an old suburb full of small houses encrusted with fancy bricks and tiles. When Leila arrives there is no sign of Stuart, so she puts the seat back and replaces the Richter with the Lou Reed. It's important to distract herself from thoughts of Ben Farrell threatening to report her. As the music fills the car, she recalls her visit to the Getty, some of the paintings she saw. It is what her life has become, the pursuit of the recollection of emotion in tranquillity. Maybe she deserves to turn forty.

Her mother liked art too, but it was mainly a social thing, to distinguish herself and her friends from other people. With Leila it might have started like that, but in recent years has become an almost embarrassing passion, maybe a new addiction. The music consoles her. On the way over she was worrying about everything, even the dress she is wearing, a sleeveless cotton number in dull red with green flowers. Elizabeth once said it was too young for her, but Leila thinks she still has the figure to carry it off. The music allows her to see she's right, it provides support.

A knock sounds on the roof and she sits up. Stuart is standing outside, in a navy blazer and striped tie. She opens the door and the heat pours in like hot water.

‘Hello Leila,' he says. ‘Listening along to some of your music?'

‘My music?'

‘Your mother used to . . . talk about it. Anything more from your GP?'

She's told him about Ben Farrell.

‘No.'

Stuart's upset. Last night when she called him, he didn't want to come. She asked why and he wouldn't say. Now his big round face is slightly flushed and there is sweat already on his bald spot. She locks the car's doors and turns to the house, a small place rendered in concrete years before, with a green tinge that could be paint going or mildew coming. The tiny front yard is made of concrete too, weeds breaking through the cracks.

‘Let's get this over,' she says, opening the tiny gate that leads to a short path.

‘Don't worry. Carl and Julie are good people.'

‘I'm not worried.'

He blinks in the strong sunlight and puts a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare, a man not built for Australian conditions. She walks up the path and knocks on the door, then turns and sees him waiting on the footpath outside. He comes stiffly up to the door, not looking at her legs. Because of the dress, they are on display. She realises he is putting a lot of effort into not looking at her legs. She knocks again.

‘No one home?'

Don't be obvious, Stuart
, she hears her mother's voice say.

He removes his glasses and proceeds to rub them on a large white handkerchief. Leila pulls out her phone and calls Julie. It goes through to voicemail, and she hangs up without leaving a message. Stepping off the porch, she walks to the side of the house and looks down the passage. It is blocked by a large green wheelie bin, which she drags out. The bin is light. After looking around once more, she makes her way down the side of the house. Stuart is just behind, trying to keep his clothes from touching the fence or the concrete wall.

The back of the house has double doors giving onto a small yard. Through the glass they see Julie, lying on a sofa. At first Leila thinks she's asleep. Then she sees that her eyes are open and she is very still.

‘Oh no,' murmurs Stuart.

He grabs the handle of one of the doors. It's locked and he picks up a brick from the edge of a vegetable patch nearby and smashes a pane of glass. Leila is impressed: it's as though the situation has brought him to life.

Julie's wearing a green T-shirt and blue Adidas track pants. Her feet are bare, the toenails bright red. On the floor next to the sofa stand a bottle of white wine and an empty glass. Stuart goes in, moving neatly, and crouches over the body.

‘She's been dead some time,' he calls out.

Leila looks at the woman on the sofa, wondering what's happened. Julie is big, she seems bigger than in life. Her skin is grey, her eyes glassy.

‘Shit,' she says.

One death too many. Now she's crying, maybe more than when she came home and saw her mother's body. But with Julie it's a surprise, not something she's been expecting for months. There's no illusion of control.

‘What is it?' she says.

He leans over the body again and sniffs around her mouth. Then, still careful not to touch anything with his hands, he sniffs the wineglass.

He stands up. ‘Nothing.'

‘She's killed herself, hasn't she?'

She has no idea where that came from.

‘I don't see how.' He gazes around the room, at the floor around the sofa. There is nothing to see. She's never seen him puzzled before.

‘Someone must have helped her,' she says. ‘Carl.'

‘Leila, she hasn't had any Nembutal. I could tell if she had.'

‘What about the wine?'

‘It's not powerful enough to disguise the smell. That's one reason we advise people—' He stops and looks around, lowers his voice. ‘Wine wouldn't. Believe me.'

‘I feel terrible,' someone says, she realises the words are hers, they came without intention. She needs to get a hold on herself.

He sighs. ‘People sometimes do just die.' Obviously not quite sure, but putting it into the mix.

‘She was thirty, for heaven's sake.'

Shaking his head, he says, ‘It happens, an undiagnosed heart condition.' Stares around some more. ‘Looks like it happened to her.'

It's hot in the room and Leila can smell Julie's musky perfume. Needing to get away, she goes through the internal doorway. On the wall of the kitchen is a poster advertising a lecture Philip Nitschke gave last year. It shows the face of an old woman and a dove flying just above her head, with the words
Peaceful Exit
. Leila wonders about the sort of person who would have something like this in their kitchen. She realises she is sweating, and this annoys her: except on rare occasions, she doesn't sweat. Not so she can feel it, anyway. But the poster is not good. She imagines police coming to investigate the unexplained death, standing where she is now. She goes through to the other rooms in the house, a bathroom and a bedroom. Both are tidy, the double bed made and all the clothes hanging or folded away in an old wardrobe that takes up a quarter of the bedroom. There are some books, romances and vampire novels, along with one about Indian spirituality and
Final Exit
and an old copy of
The Peaceful Pill
. There is no bottle of Nembutal. She thinks about searching the rooms, but doesn't want to get her fingerprints on anything. All this, it is so unplanned.

When she gets back to the end room, she tries not to look at Julie, and for the first time notices another poster, this one advertising a conference for a voluntary euthanasia society. Stuart is holding a pile of pamphlets from the society, which he has picked up from a side table.

‘She was very committed, wasn't she?' Leila says.

As though he hasn't heard her, Stuart goes through to the kitchen. Still trying to avoid the sight of Julie's body, Leila looks out at the backyard, studying the vegetables growing there. She'd formed a poor view of Julie from the front of the place, but the vegie patch has obviously had a lot of work, and the inside of the house is neat and clean. She hears a cupboard door creaking and the kitchen bin being opened and closed. Stuart is away for over five minutes. When he comes back he is holding his handkerchief and an empty garbage bag.

‘I can't find any sign she killed herself,' he says, ignoring Julie's body lying there. Leila wonders how he can do that; she wants to scream.

‘Did you think—'

‘We need to go.'

‘Did you find the other bottle?'

‘No. Look, if the police find us here, they might start thinking about your mother's death, you understand that?'

He points at the poster. Leila knows he's right, thinks about Ben Farrell, looks at Julie again. She knows she can't leave her, slowly shakes her head. She has done things she'd rather not have done, but that is over now. Normal life has resumed, and she is going to act normally. Leila Scott is basically a good citizen.

‘You go,' she says. ‘Take the posters and the pamphlets. I'll tell them she's a nurse I hired to look after mum.'

‘Don't be sentimental,' he snaps. ‘There's a chance they'll find out about her work with us, talk to your doctor. Learn about Tijuana.'

Leila shakes her head. She never went to Mexico. Her mother's body was cremated. The bottle and the glass and even the pliers she used that night were dumped in three different bins far away. By now they are landfill. There is no evidence of what happened. Ben can say whatever he likes.

‘I called Julie,' she says, ‘from out front.'

‘Ah.'

He gets the significance of that immediately, and she is suddenly glad he's here, a sensible man despite his sweating forehead and his silly Tweed jacket.

He says, ‘They'll want to know how you met her.'

‘I'll say it was at a party. These things happen.'

He shrugs and carefully removes the poster on the wall. Placing the pamphlets on it, he wraps and puts them in the bag.

She goes into the bedroom and gets the books about euthanasia. Then she pulls the poster off the kitchen wall, and picks at a piece of blu-tack still on the plaster. Stuart comes into the room behind her, breathing heavily.

‘They'll be able to tell there was a poster,' he says, pointing to the four faint marks where the blu-tack was.

‘It'll give them something to do,' she murmurs, folding up the sheet of paper and handing it to him with the books. ‘Don't you remember telling me that officials will ask you to explain everything, but you shouldn't feel obliged?'

He wipes his forehead with the handkerchief once more and thrusts it into his pocket, nods and smiles. A man with certain qualities.

They stare at each other for a moment, both thinking about what is happening, how much they have to lose.

Leila says, ‘So she didn't die by taking the other bottle?'

‘No. I had a good look round. Carl must still have it.'

She walks around him and out to the back room, keeps going until she is in the yard and then turns, thinking about what traces Stuart might have left. He has followed her.

She says, ‘Poor Carl.'

‘They've been very close for years. I always expected them to get married. I should give him a call.' He looks around. ‘I can't stay, you know.'

Leila nods and reaches for her mobile, and Stuart puts out his free hand as though to touch her bare arm, thinks better of it. Clasping the books and the garbage bag, he moves off.

Leila hits the 0 button three times and puts the thing to her ear, watching him stumbling down the passage at the side of the house, as though walking is something he's learned from an instructional video. But the man is taking an enormous risk for her, for all of them, and she feels a rush of affection, wants to give him her thanks. Now he's gone, it's easier to feel generous.

When the emergency woman comes on, Leila tells her she needs an ambulance. Does she want the police too? the woman asks. Leila says she doesn't believe so. The woman says, a situation like this, she has to inform them anyway.